Ferelden is Slipping Through My Fingers
by Carnicirthial
Summary: War with the Chantry is eminent, King Alistair is out of his depths, and Queen Elissa is losing her mind. Peace is slipping through their fingers.


So I actually had this up before, but I got one review saying "weird..." and that was it. So I took it down and reworked some stuff so that it's still weird, but hopefully gets a little more feedback.

If you hit this, please review it.

* * *

"I see we have let our guard down," commented Morrigan as she walked in the door of her hut, carrying a bloody cut of venison.

"Your guard is not quite so loose as you suggest. I passed what seemed like a platoon of dead Templars on way in."

Behind the witch stood a child, its body clearly only six years old. But something in its yellow eyes and mature bearing betrayed that there was something odd about the young boy. "Arawn, say hello to your father's wife."

The boy nodded and muttered, "Greetings, wife of my father." It was a low rumble, barely audible.

"Arawn. What a suitable name for the boy," mused the visitor, who comfortably sat erect in one of the two chairs at the wooden table. She played idly with Morrigan's butchering knife, running a thumb down the edge.

"I am nothing if not practical. To what do we owe this unwelcome visit?"

The visitor grinned almost imperceptibly, maintaining the demeanor of a cat. Morrigan had always liked that she crafted every movement, expression, and word for maximum impact. The only time this was ever different during their journey together was when Alistair was near. With him she would jest and be bluntly honest. With everyone else, she said what would benefit her the most. Despite her duplicitous nature, though, it was always clear that the woman defended those closest to her with a dragon's ferocity.

"Unwelcome? Morrigan, we were friends once and you still wound me so?"

"Tis the only reason Arawn and I walked in the door."

"Hmmm," muttered the visitor. "I suppose it would work both ways, wouldn't it."

"The taint?" asked Arawn, his voice again a low grumble. It called to mind dark places and times without name.

The visitor shuddered only the slightest bit; it would have looked like she was adjusting her cuff. "Indeed, it is how I found you. Tell me, how far away can you sense me… may I call you child?"

"You may, my lady, for in this form I am a child. I can feel the pull of the Grey Wardens like a cold wind from a storm. When you came near, it was like a snowflake falling toward me. I paid it no heed until we were almost home."

"Morrigan, is he aware of what he is?" asked the visitor, her normally controlled voice betraying shock.

"In ways. He knows that he is not a normal child, or even a normal human. But he recalls nothing before birth."

The visitor examined the child, who met her gaze evenly. Finally she answered him. "Your oversight could have been a deadly mistake if it had not been I seeking you and your mother."

"I will be more vigilant, my lady."

She nodded, unreadable as always. "He's more polite than you, Morrigan."

"He has spent more time with society than Flemmeth allowed me in my youth. My patience is growing thin, especially after you swore not to search me out."

The visitor laughed. "Of course it is. I come for help."

Morrigan stoked the fire their visitor had started with disdain. "Tis not enough to save your life and the life of your beloved? Or aid you in your conquest against the Blight? I will not help you."

The visitor sighed. "Morrigan, I had hoped-"

"I want nothing to do with your politics, Elissa! I've spent enough time in towns now to hear of your exploits, and I know that anything you want from me is only to be a pawn in the next part of your reshaping Ferelden." The witch grabbed the visitor's cloak from the mantle and threw it at her.

"Silly me, I was under the impression the integrating the elves and promoting trade with the dwarves was good policy. I see you do not approve." She stood and gathered her cloak.

"You do not need my approval. Nor do you need my help." Morrigan turned her back to her guest.

"Mother," rumbled the boy-god, "you do not know your visitor's mind. Hear it before you drive her away."

Both women examined the boy, one worried the he could sense more than her presence and the other irked at being chastened by a six year old.

But Morrigan sighed and raised her hands in defeat. "What is it that you want, my old companion?"

The visitor smiled. "I want what you have. I want a child."

Morrigan cackled. "You do not want this child."

She ignored the dark joke, made uneasy by the idea. "Grey Wardens are not supposed to be particularly fertile. But in one night, and one attempt, with Alistair you were undoubtedly with child. I was hoping that with your magic or your herbalism…"

Morrigan was surprised to hear the visitor's voice trail off. The woman was strong and cunning in everything she did, never had she hesitated. Upon inspection of her down turned face, the witch realized that this was no small thing being asked, that a child was worth more than all of the kingdom of Ferelden in her mind.

"That is all?" Morrigan flicked the ear of her boy for a "told you so" look. "Tis a simple thing indeed, you should have asked sooner."

The visitor smiled and lowered her shoulders, which she had not realized were poised to fight. "You have my sincere gratitude, Morrigan."

The other woman waved as she dug through the shelves of her wooden cabinet like she was waving away a fly. Her old companion smiled, familiar with her discomfort with positive emotions like fondness and gratitude. Morrigan grabbed a black jar with something green caked on the rim and lid, and then poured a brown powder from another black jar, this one slightly duller, into a dried leather pouch.

"A spoonful of this," explained the witch while holding up the powder, "goes in both your wine glasses an hour before, preferably without food. This," she held up the jar, "goes on his manhood, such as it is, and inside your womanhood during the act of conception. It works best in the week before your woman's time begins, and it should work the first time, but just in case your tainted parts are all shriveled and dry, I've given you enough to breed a whole army of little Wardens."

The visitor carefully tucked both into her pack like they were made of gold. "Must the drink be alcoholic?"

Morrigan laughed. "Tis Alistair we are speaking of? Then no, water will suffice. Anything else? A tincture for warts, maybe? If I am to be your apothecary woman, you might as well get everything while you are here."

The visitor smiled, but then her face fell again. "The taint… do you think it will…"

Morrigan thought the answer would be yes. But the look in her old companion's eyes made it clear the answer would break her. The witch's answer, then, surprised herself. "I do not know. But if the answer was yes, would you no longer wish to have children?"

The Grey Warden stared at her hands. "This taint is a curse. I did not wish it on myself, I don't wish it on anyone. If my child only had the life of a Warden, to be cut so short, I think my guilt would follow me beyond my grave."

"Well, you may try and hope for the best, or you may stay barren for fear of what your child might become. I cannot make the decision for you, but I have given you the tools to defy fate," Morrigan answered briskly, afraid the visitor may begin to weep.

It took a moment, but the visitor became herself once more. "Hope, Morrigan? I thought you looked down on things like hope, compassion, and love."

"You taught me the art of merciful lies during our travels."

"Of course you would ruin it like that. I must go, my camp waits for me at the edge of the Wilds. Bennet will eat the dwarf if I don't feed him soon." She pulled on her cloak and pack and made for the door. She moved so quickly, it startled Morrigan, who had forgotten her companion had almost unearthly speed.

"I would invite you back sometime, but I don't actually want you to return."

"Safe travels, wife of my father," rumbled the boy, who had begun mincing the venison into more sizeable pieces.

With a charming smile, the visitor slipped out the door, opening it to the rain just enough to slip through. As she poured herself into the world, the visitor called, "It may be my overwhelming gratitude, Morrigan, but if ever you need my aid, you need only ask. Within reason, of course."

And with that, the door closed as softly as it had opened an hour before, leaving no trace that the Queen of Ferelden had been in the Witch of the Wilds' hut.

* * *

"Maker's breath, you look beautiful after a week of traveling with nothing but a dwarf and a dog. Tell me, who ate more? And who smelled worse? My money would be on Oghren." King Alistair sauntered across the courtyard as the sun began to top the castle peaks toward the love of his life.

"Suck my hairy, dwarven-" The hung-over berserker was silenced by the dog nipping playfully at his posterior.

"Good Bennet, you tell him to shut up," cooed the queen, who was tired from traveling eighteen hours a day in the Wilds, covered in dirt and darkspawn blood, among other unpleasant things. She turned her face up and smiled wearily at her husband. "I missed you."

Across the courtyard now, Alistair swept the small woman into his arms and kissed her full on the mouth, disregarding the filth and getting his kingly attire smeared in filth.

As he set her back down on the ground, Elissa commented, "You'll have to change."

"Nope!" He grinned boyishly. "Don't have time. I'm leaving this very instant, I'm packed up and everything!"

He clearly missed the dismay on her face when she asked, "But I just got back. Where could you be going?"

"To the Joining of more Grey Warden recruits. Ten, this time. Can you believe it? You know, the Hero of Ferelden being a Warden has really boosted recruitment. It probably helps that the Blight is over, but beggars can't be choosers." He kissed her one more time, so quickly he missed her lips and got a quick peck on her chin, and then ran toward the main gates where his traveling party would no doubt be waiting on their tardy king. Elissa watched his figure retreat, hurt in addition to tired now.

"Your husband is about as dense as the Stone," commented Oghren as the king disappeared.

"He's well meaning, and kind, and honest, and as stupid as he can be, he loves me." The party of three, a modest band compared to Alistair's vanguard and retainers who numbered probably at least fifty total plus himself and Zevran, the king's shadow at the queen's behest, headed for the servant's entrance to the kitchen where they could have a hot meal before bathing. Although the cook might insist they eat with Bennet, they smelled so awfully. "Plus, he's a wonder in the bedroom."

"Do you think I want to hear that? I don't go telling you about the bar maids I go about with, do I? I could, if it'd make you feel better. Besides, I don't buy it."

"This long, Oghren. And this thick." She held up her hands to demonstrate. "Some mornings, I have to-"

"I get it, he's as dense downstairs as he is upstairs. But he's still as thick as a rock." They reach the kitchen and put their packs outside with happy sighs. Bennet, a constant fountain of energy, spotted one of the cats the kitchen staff kept to defend against mice and went tearing off around the garden.

As the dwarf and the queen walked in the door, she said, "You don't get to criticize my husband's lack of perception when you didn't even realize your wife preferred different equipment than yours."

"Are you sure you're a queen and not some dirty sodding whore who snuck her way onto the throne? Because you certainly talk like one when no one important is listening."

"I wonder that myself somet-"

"Good Maker in heaven, what is that smell. Oghren, I have told you to stay out of my kitchen! My maids don't do their jobs and you eat the whole castle empty. Out!"

Oghren laughed his deep hearty laugh. "Aye ya did, but I have me a chaperone this time. I'll behave, or she's responsible."

Marny, the head cook, scrutinized his filthy companion. The shock on her face when she recognized the queen was comical to say the least. "Your majesty! I didn't – I'll have something sent to your chambers immediately!"

Elissa held up a hand and smiled. "No, no I'd much rather eat here and keep the filth contained to one area. If you could send someone for Liaheln, though, I'd be very grateful."

"Of course majesty. And what shall I cook today?"

"Roast a boar! And bring me enough ale to drown my hangover!" cried Oghren, already seated at the benches against the wall where messengers and servants often ate, leering at the kitchen maids.

"Something quick and hot, if you don't mind. I'd be fine with milk or water, but bring the dwarf a pint of mead. He's only going to get louder. Although he's a loud drunk as well, so you better walk the fine line between sober and happy with him."

Marny smiled and bowed, and as soon as the queen turned the cook began to shout orders. In a few moments Lia, Elissa's lady-in-waiting and friend glided into the kitchen. Liaheln was a city elf from the alienage that had worked in the Denerim castle her whole life. As soon as Elissa had moved in with Alistair she had recognized that Lia was as cunning and intelligent as she was quiet. Although the queen technically had the whole castle staff at her disposal, and a personal staff of twenty or so maids, the only one she relied on was Lia. Lia was no idiot, and used her new favor with the queen to find jobs for her family, who proved themselves just as cunning as Lia. The maid, although quiet and often ignored in public because of her race, had been instrumental in gaining approval among the nobility for integration legislation the queen had pushed through with her momentum and clout from being named the Hero of Ferelden. She spoke as well as her mistress, and made a wonderful example of the humanity, so to speak, of her race.

"Your majesty, you're filthy! I told you I should have come," Lia fussed.

"Then you'd be dirty too. My pack is outside the door, if you could take it upstairs. And be as careful with the contents as possible."

Lia nodded, pleased to see her friend. "And would my lady like a bath?"

"Please," she smiled, anticipating a hot bath almost as badly as the hot meal. "I'll be up as soon as I finish eating."

"And have my pipe and slippers waiting, girl," commanded Oghren.

Lia only raised an eyebrow, by now used to her queen's strange companion. "I'll have a maid pull you a bath as well. Perhaps a manservant, actually." And she was gone again, almost as quick as Elissa.

"How is it that you have such a reputation for being a lady killer in my household, you smelly, hairy dwarf?" Marny brought them two trenchers of roast beef and red potatoes, along with their drinks. She handed Oghren his mead with a scowl that he only grinned at.

"Them are compliments where I come from. And do you really want to know? I could probably give your lout of a husband a couple pointers. I'll give you a hint – it has to do with height."

"Maker, I'm sorry I asked."

* * *

Alistair fell to the cold, stone ground below him. The smell of Denerim burning was as thick as the blood coating his Templar armor. He was no king, only a Grey Warden and a warrior, no one's leader. How had he become the head of an army sent to end the Blight? He was just one man. The place should have been given to someone stronger, someone who wanted to do more than turn back time. How he hated giving orders, and he'd botched them so terribly. Denerim could have burned, they should have waited for the Orlesians. What a fool he'd been, and as he lay on the rooftop of Fort Drakon where the archdemon had waited, he found the strength to stand had left his body.

Leliana's body lay crumpled to his left.

Morrigan and a mabari war dog lay tossed aside, stuck full of arrows, to his right.

And as the cold of the stone began to creep into his limbs, a Hurloc Vaguard strolled forward, grabbing a pike as it approached the fallen Warden. Almost as an afterthought as it passed, the Hurloc drove the pike through Alistair's back, piercing his chest and ending the last of Ferelden's hope.

Elissa woke screaming, drenched in a cold sweat. The world was ended. The darkspawn horde would come destroy her family's home, and she could do nothing to defend it. All was lost.

"My lady? Your majesty, what happened!" Lia came running in with three of the royal guard and a taper.

The light seemed to end the spell of the dream. "Lia, I… I'm sorry to have woken you. It was only a nightmare."

Lia shooed out the guards and closed the door before sitting on the edge of the royal bed like she was comforting a child. "They are getting worse."

"Ever since I came back from the Wilds. I'd say it was Morrigan, but for all her amorality, she wishes me no harm." Elissa passed a hand over her eyes, still shaking. It had been so real.

"All things end, your majesty, good and bad alike. This is not forever." The elf stroked the long raven hair out of her friend's eyes.

The queen sat, tired and scared, for a long moment while her friend comforted her before asking, "When will Alistair return?"

Lia sighed. "He said no more than a week."

"So I should expect him back in a month. Six years, Lia, and he thinks ruling is settling petty squabbles between the nobility and walking through the market in his armor." A shuddering sigh went through her slight frame. In a lesser woman, it would have been a sob.

"The crown may be on his majesty's head, but the power of the throne is my lady's. He does not need to rule when you do it so well."

The silence lasted longer this time. "I wish he'd stay, at least to keep me company."

Lia did not reply, but only stroked the hair of her friend for another quarter hour before she stood to leave.

"Lia?"

She turned as her hand was on the door, "Yes, my lady?"

"Could you, perhaps, sleep the night in here? I am…"

She smiled, and returned quickly with a cot and blankets. "Yes, my lady."

* * *

"Wouldn't mess with her if I were you," grunted Oghren.

King Alistair hadn't even taken off his armor, although a servant had insisted on wiping the darkspawn blood off before letting him into the royal suite. "Pardon?"

"She's in a royal mood, an' I don't mean the puttin' on airs and lying through yer teeth mood, I mean take your head off as soon as look at ya mood." Oghren, although still technically of the warrior caste, had elected to stay top side where he could drink as much as he liked without relatives judging him. Also, Felsi, whose surprising green thumb had been employed by the head gardener in the palace, would have killed him if he left Denerim. Despite loud protests from several of the less understanding noble houses, Alistair had made him a general of Ferelden's army. The job kept him sober, except for when he would accompany the queen on her own little excursions into the Deep Roads or her secret errands, when the dwarf deemed it best as her bodyguard to be as drunk as he could.

"Why are you still here? Don't you have troops to be marching somewhere?" Alistair reached for the doorknob to the royal office, where Liaheln had tersely informed him Elissa had made camp the last fortnight.

"Now I ain't exactly a scholar, but when my wife sent me an official missive telling me to piss off, I read the first couple of 'em." Oghren sidestepped in front of the door, his dense body keeping it shut while Alistair tugged in vain.

"She didn't tell me to piss off, she just told me it was unnecessary to send as many troops as I wanted… three times. Sure, the last one was a little crotchety, something about 'stop chasing darkspawn' and 'a cold bed for the rest of eternity,' but she's not really mad at me." The king placed a boot on the door jam for leverage against the door for leverage. He couldn't move the dwarf. "Maker's breath, what do you weigh?"

"Heh, little too dense for ya, you sodding clodhopper?"

"Oghren, as King and Commander of the Army of Ferelden, and therefore your _boss_, I order you to get out of my way so I can romance my wife. Shoo, you hairy nuisance, go chase a chambermaid."

Oghren started laughing hysterically, but moved all the same. As he waddled down the hall toward the servant's quarters, he shouted, "It's your funeral, pike-twirler. Too bad you don't have an heir yet!"

Alistair waited for him to leave before he opened the door. Elissa wasn't mad at him, he was sure of it. How could she be?

The door slammed a little louder than he would have liked, but he still got the effect of a dramatic entrance. Or would have, if Elissa had been awake. The room was a large rectangle sitting in the middle of the royal suite. When it had been Anora's, the walls had been covered in bookshelves and Orlesian paintings and the floor had been decorated with a thick rug. Once the place became Elissa's, though, it became a hall of practicality. The thick oak desk had been moved to the center of the room, off the dais at the north end so she could easily access the bookshelves and trunks, all of which were bursting with official records. Her scribe Elwin had a desk perpendicular to the main door, where he penned her missives when he wasn't fetching her scrolls and then putting the place back together when she inevitably tore it apart. Alistair suspected that Elwin carried something of a torch for his wife because of the way the man doted on the queen and gave icy stares to the king, but Elissa seemed either ignorant or uninterested. On the dais where the desk had once stood, impressive and intimidating, a cot had been set up, and a small table covered by dirty dishes stood next to it. The only decoration she had was The Summer Sword, the beast of a blade she'd used to end the blight and slay the archdemon six years ago. It hung to her right against a plain crimson wall hanging. When no one was around, Alistair would take it down and marvel that she'd been able to heft the thing at all. That happened less and less, though. It seemed the more time Alistair spent away, and he'd been away a lot this year, the more time she secluded herself in the office.

Elissa wasn't in the cot, however. She was slumped over on the desk, her face on a stack of what looked like ledgers. Elwin was gone, so she must have been asleep for a long time. Normally, Alistair loved his wife when she slept, almost more than when she was awake. Het face was relaxed, not the normal mask of unreadable attentiveness. He'd never experienced it himself, but he'd seen the effect she had on people. Whether or not she agreed with the person speaking, she gave them the sense that what they were saying was of the utmost importance, which goaded them into opening their mouths a bit too wide, arming her with more information than they intended. Filed away somewhere, Alistair knew she had files on every single Arl and Bann in the kingdom, and a couple on the ambassadors that had come to feel out the new king shortly after his coronation. He knew they'd been looking for weaknesses they could exploit, but he'd watched each and every one meet Elissa and run back to their homes with their tails between their legs. But tonight she looked haggard, like she hadn't been able to sleep.

He pulled off his gauntlet and stroked her hair. She took a deep breath and opened her eyes, unsmiling. Alistair just chalked it up to her lack of sleep. "I like your hair long. Why was it so short when we met?"

"Oghren let you in." She didn't sound pleased.

"Umm, yes? Why wouldn't he?" Alistair stopped stroking her hair and braced himself with one hand against the desk and another on the back of her chair, effectively boxing her in.

She pushed back her chair suddenly, upsetting his balance and making him totter a little. "Because I expressly told him not to."

"Well, I ordered him out of my way. I technically outrank you, for once." He grinned rakishly. When that didn't melt her icy glare, he began to realize she was genuinely mad at him. "Why would you do that?"

"Because I'm mad at you, you oaf!" she shouted, standing now.

Alistair stared at her, clearly dumbfounded.

"You know how many days you've been here the last year?"

He hesitated. "Umm, I was here for your birthday, and – "

"You have spent seven months of twelve away from Denerim, either with the sodding Grey Wardens or off having adventures while I get to sit on your throne and do your bloody job! And while you are here, you spent most of your time in the market district pretending to be someone else. Just because you finally established peace in the Bannorn doesn't mean you're done. You know what else? You know how many edicts, legislations, or other kingly decisions you've made since you took the crown?"

"Umm-"

"Twenty eight. In six years, you've made twenty eight royal decisions, and most of them were either giving your damned Grey Wardens land and rights or settling petty squabbles among the nobility. You know how many I've made? Because I don't. I stopped counting when I realized that even if I left you, you wouldn't ever be able to catch up." She poked him hard in the chest, which only succeeded in jamming her finger since he was still in his armor. She shook it angrily.

Alistair furrowed his brow. "You're keeping score? Over who rules better? Well you win. You always won. I never wanted the throne, you knew that right from the get go. In fact, I'm fairly certain you always wanted it more than I did. I mean, between you and Eamon, you did most of the work to get me here in the first place. Since you're so good at it, I figured I'd let you rule. You've been doing fine without me. And what do you mean 'your Grey Wardens?' Last I checked, my dear, you are the Commander of the Grey." He was yelling now too, and from the corner of his eye he saw Lia peek around the corner and then retreat.

"I have not been doing fine! Not at all! I've slept four hours a night since you left a sodding month ago to go play hero again." She grabbed the stack of ledgers off the desk and started smacking him with them. "This, this is the Alienage records. There've been more riots, seems the town guard continues to enforce the curfew I abolished five bleeding years ago, and now they're demanding the army comes keep the peace. On top of that, the market district has become segregated between the three races. You want something metal, you go to the dwarves, you want bread and linen, you go to the humans, and you want your pocket picked, apparently you go to the elves. They can't make any money like normal citizens, so now they're earning a reputation as thieves as well as servants. We're developing our own Dust Town, all we need is an organized mob!"

He took a step back, the ledger was heavy.

"This one is trade with the dwarves. It's down, a lot; Bhelen can't convince the dwarves to go top side, even with the tax breaks we've promised their merchants, so he's asking I send our merchants to Orzammar. Do you know how many humans want to go underground to trade? Even fewer than dwarves that want to come topside, because the casteless have taken to murdering humans who come in for jobs. Apparently dwarves will treat human visitors better than their own lower class citizens, and that doesn't sit too well."

The next one she hit him with was as thick as his head.

"And this! This is my favorite! This is the budget. It's out of balance by six thousand sovereigns for the next year, and it's not like I can pawn off the extra loot from dead bodies to cover expenses any more, someone might notice! The Chantry is skimping on taxes, trade is down, and if I raise land taxes one more time, Wulff is going rebel. I've got farmers who still can't recover their lands from the Blight lined up outside the gates asking for handouts, poverty is at an all time high. I can't feed the army, I can't rebuild the city, I certainly can't afford to educate anyone, and I can't do this alone anymore, Alistair!"

The budget ledger hit him in the solar plexus, making him double up for a moment and lose his breath.

When he could speak, he yelled, "What am I supposed to do, Elissa? It seems like every time I try my hand at being king, something backfires and you have to fix my mistakes anyway!"

"You don't get to just give up!" She stormed toward the door, but Alistair was in her way and slammed it, standing immobile.

"What do you mean, my Grey Wardens?"

"Get out of my way, I'm done talking to you!" She kicked at him, only stubbing her toe on his armor.

"No, Elissa, answer the question. What do you mean?"

She looked up at him, furious. "I hate being a Grey Warden. I hate it. I hate your stupid order and the things it's done to me. I don't like fighting, I'd much rather talk, but being one of your stupid Wardens has filled me with a bloodlust I have to sate every couple of months. I can't sleep the night without nightmares, even now. I can't have children, and even if I could they would only inherit this curse! And worst of all is every moment I feel tick away like a hand on a clock, closer and closer to the day when I intentionally fall in the Deep Roads or fall to the taint. You never wanted to be king, Alistair? I never wanted to be a Grey Warden. Duncan refused to save my life unless my father gave me to the Grey Wardens, and I went with him because I was scared and naïve. I thought Cailan would rush to my aid and avenge my parents, but instead he gleefully allowed my conscription. And the whole way through the process, it was join or die. Do you remember Ser Jory? Because I still have nightmares about his death. I was coerced into becoming something I never wanted to be!"

Alistair looked at her with cold, stony eyes, the same look she'd seen him with in battle. "We're both in positions we don't want to be in, then."

"Yes, but unlike you, I've continued to do my duty, despite my own desire to renounce it all." Her voice was full of venom. She'd once used that voice to accuse an arl of harboring Tevinter spies, and then promptly had him executed.

"Turn your back on your duty as the Grey Warden Commander, then," he shouted. "The blood of Ferelden will be on your hands!"

"I cannot hold up both your Wardens and your kingdom, Alistair!"

They stood at an impasse, angry tears tugging at her eyes. She refused to back down, and she had not cried since her parents' slaughter. Her husband stood, icy and immobile for a moment longer, before he looked away, clearly furious, and moved enough to let her pass.

"I'm going to Highever for a month to stay with my brother. In my absence, you must rule alone," she spoke solemnly, like she did when she gave edicts. "I will instruct Elwin to aid you, but the decisions - and the problems - lie in your hands." And with that she was gone, leaving Alistair to seethe at her apparent betrayal.

* * *

"They are mostly gone, mother, aren't they?"

Morrigan was standing in the door of her hut, the glow of a warm fire casting her shadow onto the cold ground. It was near midnight, and the rain had just let up. Arawn had woken her by leaving the bed they shared for warmth to stand in the cold, moonlit garden that lay barren during the rainy season. "Who are, child?"

"The others like me. I can feel… spaces. Like empty sockets where glittering gems once lay. Only two are still filled, but their glitter is covered, like there is no light shining on them. Who were they?"

Morrigan was quiet. Her son was an interesting phenomenon. To the best she could figure, there had already been the beginnings of a soul in the unborn child that had absorbed the tainted old god six years ago. The two had joined in her womb, and the result had been Arawn. He had the wisdom, a love of natural beauty, cruelty, judgment and mercy beyond that of a normal six year old. He truly seemed an old soul, taken to sitting still for hours, pondering the world around him. Unlike other children his age, he did not chase bugs and make up games. He watched, and when he encountered a creature intelligent enough to learn, he taught it. There was a whole menagerie of birds, bears, wolves, and other things that stayed near to the hut for the child. But he did not remember anything beyond his birth. He still possessed the curiosity and ignorance, and the innocence born of the two, of a child. Morrigan had decided not to tell him the truth of his birth until he was at least in his teens, but also chose not to lie to him. The result was that Arawn was beginning to piece his origins together from the half-truths his mother told him. He knew he was not a mortal as others conceived it, he knew he had possessed a life before this one, and he knew that he must keep these things secret. It seemed now that he was beginning to realized he had not always been so alone in his power and uniqueness.

"They were your brothers, once."

He nodded. "Before this life? How many years?"

She thought for a moment, recalling what she knew of the old gods. "The first died many thousands of years ago. The last, four hundred. You would have been next, had I not intervened."

He stared at the moon, calmed by its full grace. The idea that he was one of a dying breed filled him with a panic his six year old mind could hardly contain. "And the Warden who came to visit. And my father. Alistair is his name. King Alistair."

Morrigan was irked at his memory. She would have liked the credit for his life all to herself. But he was right, so she only murmured her affirmative.

"But there are two left. Where are they, mother?"

She shook her head. "Tis a mystery, child. Perhaps when you are older, you shall know."

He nodded. The idea of time did not scare him. He knew he had plenty of it. He could wait, then, to find his brothers who were hidden from the light.

Suddenly a wretched howl filled the air. Morrigan jumped, and quickly became the largest bear she could fathom. Seven feet tall at the shoulder, she roared back, and thundered forward to shelter her child, who stood still between her huge front legs. Out of the darkness came thundering a pack of blighted wolves, crazed and hungry. Their eyes glowed red in the moonlight. Morrigan roared again, but they charged on, undeterred, toward their prey.

The witch tensed herself to spring, but before she could, she felt Arawn's small hand on the inside of her haunch. Something in the touch commanded her to stay, so she did not move, but only watched. As suddenly as they appeared, the wolves stopped, padding to a halt several feet before the mother and child. The whole pack lay down like war dogs commanded by their kennel master, looking at the boy with expectant eyes. After a moment, he stepped out from the protection of his mother's legs and approached the nearest wolf. Morrigan almost snatched him away in her jaws, but the wolf did not move, only watched him with a patient gaze. Out from his belt came the small knife he carried to cut sapling branches and kill small animals caught in his clever traps.

"Sleep now, tortured soul," murmured the child, and then slipped the knife into the base of the wolf's skull. The child was sprayed with a fountain of hot blood, but only blinked. He went on to the next wolf, and then the next and the next until the whole pack had been released by the small boy of six.

* * *

"Elwin, how harshly would you judge me if I told you that reading and writing were never my strong suits?" Alistair sat in Elissa's chair, which despite being a simple high backed oak with a thin cushion was effectively the throne of Ferelden, not quite sure where to start. Ledgers, books, and scrolls were stacked high enough he'd have to stand to reach the tops to his right and left, and the top was rimmed with quills and ink. As far as he could tell, the stacks were organized by issue. One stack for the elves, one for the dwarves, one for Orlais, one for the Tevinter Imperium, and a frighteningly large one for the Chantry. In the middle was the budget ledger, which Elwin had informed him was the number one priority.

"Suffice to say, majesty, my surprise would not be overwhelming." Elwin sat at his own desk like a storm cloud, currently scribbling away at some missive or another.

Alistair tried to focus on the ledger. It'd been three days, and he'd gone over the numbers twice. He couldn't find a single sovereign that wasn't being spent necessarily. Elissa, it seemed, had been running a tight ship and was still sinking. Frustrated, he decided to move on to a new task. Maybe the solution would come to him then. He put the budget ledger on top of one of the stacks, which proceeded to come tumbling down with a ferocious crash all over the desk.

Elwin looked up with a glare that could have frozen a dragon. "That doesn't go there," he growled. "Majesty," he added, the word about as thick with disdain as possible.

The king blushed. "Sorry, I'll just pick this up myself." He scrambled about on the floor, trying to pick up as many loose papers as he could.

"No, no, majesty, allow me." The scribe's tone implied the Alistair would only mess things up more.

The stack that had been knocked over was for the Chantry. Most appeared to be property records, and each one with outstanding taxes was marked in the corner with a red wax dot. Only a few holdings were paid in full. "Elwin?"

"Yes, majesty?" The man's voice was an ice storm.

"How much does the Ferelden Chantry owe in taxes?" He began looking at the holdings that had not paid. Denerim, Highever, Dragon's Peak, even the chantry run on Grey Warden lands was behind.

"In land taxes alone, majesty? Or in total?"

"Total, please." Dues to the army were unpaid, taxes on donations, taxes on sales, nothing had been paid the last three months. Something was afoot.

Elwin shuffled around the stack of papers and found what he was looking for. "Seven thousand six hundred eighty three sovereigns, majesty."

Alistair sat back down. "Why would Elissa allow them to go so long without paying taxes? If they'd just pay, the budget wouldn't be such a crisis."

Elwin obviously knew, the man lied poorly when he muttered, "I am not sure, majesty."

Alistair just swung his head toward the small man with a raised eyebrow. He'd perfected that look on the nobility, it said, "Lie to me again, I dare you."

The scribe suddenly found his feet very interesting as he muttered, "Her majesty the queen did not want to confront the Grand Cleric. She said something about a war she could not win."

The king was stunned for a moment, then began laughing so hard he almost fell out of his chair. Elwin stared like the man had suddenly turned into a goat. "She… She's…" He couldn't control his laughter for a long moment. Finally he wiped his eyes and explained, "She's afraid of the Grand Cleric? That old bat? No, that can't be right, Elissa isn't afraid of anyone."

"Afraid is not perhaps the term I would use… merely prudent." Elwin's feathers were clearly ruffled.

"Elissa has killed three high dragons, and you're telling me she doesn't want to 'confront' the Chantry? She's not even religious, she thinks the Chant is a bunch of mumbo jumbo for scaring the masses into obedience." Alistair ignored Elwin's icy glare, no doubt back in place because he insinuated that the Hero of Ferelden was afraid of anything. "Do me a favor. Get together all the records proving that the Chantry isn't paying its bills and write up a nice little invoice. Make it look official, but write it up like a tab so it's obvious what isn't getting paid and by who." He stood up and marched for the door.

"When would his majesty like this 'tab' finished?" Elwin scurried for his desk.

"You're good at writing, right? You've got an hour." Alistair gleefully slammed the door on the scribe's outraged face.

Zevran was perched outside the door, paring his fingernails with a dagger. As soon as the king sauntered past, the elf stood and glided behind in his wake. "You have that look you get when you think you are being cunning. Is a game afoot, then?"

The elf annoyed Alistair. To no end, actually, and he suspected that was why Elissa had assigned the Antivan to shadow her husband day and night as an unofficial body guard. Since the assassin wasn't technically part of the army or royal guard, but a free contractor hired by the queen, there was very little the king could do about it, so he'd learned to at least make the best use of Zevran he could. "Do me a favor, you nancy, go put on your most intimidating armor and disappear."

The elf made a tsking noise. "We have gone over this, your whininess, I am paid by your wife to irritate and protect."

Back in the royal bath chamber, which was bigger than his bedroom as a child, Alistair lathered up his face and began shaving. He'd been told it was too rakish, but he'd found the face fuzz he kept on his chin made people underestimate him, which often put them on equal footing. "Actually, I've just scoured the budget for three solid days. You're not being paid anything, my friend. So why are you still here?"

Zevran began pawing through Alistair's shaving kit, earning an intentionally misaimed swipe from the razor. "Perhaps I am secretly sleeping with your wife. We have quite the tawdry romance. No closet in your household has not been witness to our passion." This earned him another swipe from the razor, this time not so misaimed. "Or perhaps it is an unrequited love I carry for her. I pine night and day for your lady wishing only I were hairier and thicker that I may sweep her off her feet so we may make clumsy tent love all night long."

The king threw up his hands in exasperation. "No one is ever going to let me live that down, are they?"

"If one chooses to learn the art of love where others may observe, then one does not get to complain when others offer friendly advice."

"La la la la la, not listening." Finished shaving and generally clean, Alistair moved on to the wardrobe, which probably would have fit three of his rooms at the Chantry when he'd trained as a Templar. "Really, Zevran, why do you stay?"

Without being asked, the elf quickly did up several of the harder to reach buckles on the king's armor. "All the adventures you go on keep me sharp. I have something to do, someone to banter with, and a warm place to lay my head between jobs. What else could I ask for, no?"

Alistair grunted. "I guess you're right. But if Elissa has her way, my adventuring days are over."

"Oh?" The pointy ears twitched. "Trouble in the boudoir?"

The king said nothing.

"Why, may I ask, are you in your Templar armor and not your far shinier, kingly attire?" asked the elf.

Alistair grinned wickedly. "I meant it, I want you to disappear."

* * *

An hour later the king could be found battling a mob of little boys. The mock skirmish was quite the stalemate, since Alistair wasn't going to strike a little boy, even lightly, and no little boy was willing to land the "killing blow" on the king. Instead, all parties involved made heroic war cries and swiped at each other's ankles while a crowd watched, laughing to see the ruler of Ferelden in full armor play with a legion of impoverished boys. One little boy, however, whose stick seemed far more worn than the others, watched carefully and flitted in and out of the fight. The templar king noticed, and tried to land a glancing blow on his clever little backside, but the child was always a step ahead. Although it still looked like an all out melee, an experienced eye would have noted that it was actually a duel between the king and the ragamuffin with the worn stick. They watched each other warily while Alistair swung his own felled sapling around, idly clearing the boys away, just to let them scurry back. Suddenly, it seemed the boy had made a false step and was within the king's reach. He made a strong downward sweep toward the boy, who made no move out of the way. Almost instantly, the boy's branch swept up above his head and caught the blow, directing it glancing off to the left. In the moment it took Alistair to raise it once more, the boy lunged forward and jabbed at the king's unprotected armpit and sliced at the main artery running inside the arm. Had they been using sharp weapons, he would have been within danger of bleeding out.

The crowd was shocked, and everyone stood still. The little boy was triumphant, until it dawned on him that he'd just "killed" the king. But then Alistair let out a great booming laugh, breaking the silence, and began to clap. The crowd joined in, making the boy blush and beam with pride.

"What's your name, boy?" asked the king.

"Davril, your majesty." He bowed clumsily.

"Davril, you are a very good fighter. Who taught you?"

The boy became defensive. "No one. I did it myself." As an afterthought, he added, "Your majesty."

The king smiled slightly. "I have someone I'd like you to meet, Davril, but he's a little preoccupied right now. I want you to come to the royal office tomorrow at fifteen past ten."

Dumbstruck, the little child just nodded.

Over his shoulder, the king heard a distinctly Antivan accent whisper, "She's in her office having tea. You've got maybe fifteen minutes."

The king nodded, waved to the crowd, and began marching toward the Denerim Chantry where the Grand Cleric was for the moment.

"Wait, your majesty!"

Alistair turned to see Davril chasing after him.

"Do I, umm, need a pass? To come to the palace, I mean?"

The man smiled rakishly. "Be creative, boy." And then continued on his way.

"You see the boy, Zevran? If he can break into Elissa's office, I want you to train him. Just make sure the guards don't give him too hard a time, alright?"

If anyone had been listening carefully in the market district, they would have heard an exasperated sigh from just over the king's shoulder. It made Elwin jump, who was walking in the middle of Alistair's personal guard and clutching a folio of documents to his chest like they might get stolen. Alistair guessed the scribe didn't get out much. Once the king and his convoy reached Denerim's recently rebuilt Chantry, the Templars outside saluted the king and swept open the doors. The halls were filled with sunlight filtering in from the expensive stain glass windows recessed in the walls. There was no specific pattern, only brilliant colors filling the aisle. It had been designed by a clever dwarf on loan from Orzammar who delighted in the idea of natural light, and at noon the sun would align so that the windows created two columns of colored light to line the pews. Elissa and Alistair had been married shortly after its completion, the first official ceremony in the new building. The Grand Cleric of Ferelden, who had presided, had kept finding excuses to stare in awe at her new chantry the whole time. The altar stood at the head of the church, and at sunset the colorful light would coalesce on the wall just above the Reverend Mother's head as she lead the service. In the first couple of months, the king was told, attendance had skyrocketed as people flooded into the modern marvel, and one of the few finished buildings in the ruined city.

To the left and down a grand hall lined with tapestries depicting the life of the prophet was the Grand Cleric's chambers, the first room being her office. Despite the Chantry teaching humility before the Maker, the woman's office was adorned in silver and gold holy relics and plush carpets. Alistair saw Elwin muttering, probably doing some calculations in his head. They'd both come to the same conclusion: the budget deficit could be solved with a quick sale of the Grand Cleric's office treasures.

The Grand Cleric, who had renounced her name long ago like all Reverend Mothers, was an old woman who had never been beautiful. If not for the grand robes she wore, she would have looked like a hag. Her chin was covered in thin wires and her face seemed to be fighting a perpetual grimace. Even so, when the king entered she smiled warmly, which he knew to be feigned, and reached for another cup from her tea set, which alone must have cost 50 sovereigns. "Welcome, your majesty. To what do I owe this unexpected visit? And in so holy garb! Don't tell me you are thinking of taking your vows at last?" she guffawed, the sound like a sick mule braying.

Alistair motioned for his royal guard to wait outside, leaving only Elwin, who looked like he wanted to ransack the place, and an invisible Zevran in the office with him. "Well, I consider myself a Templar first and a king second, holiness. I was hoping, actually, that your humble servant could, on behalf of nation of Ferelden, call on the Chantry for a little aid, Reverend Mother." He graciously took the tea, which smelled like mildew and old socks.

The Grand Cleric had been the Reverend Mother at the Chantry where Templars were trained while Alistair had been banished from Redcliff. It was from her that Duncan had saved him, and even after she had become Grand Cleric and he king, he still felt the shadow of her bony fingers pinching his ears whenever they met.

The old woman preened like a fat bird, clearly proud the king was asking her help. The new regime and the Chantry had begun as allies, especially when the integration legislation was being pushed through. The Chantry had been the first to welcome the elves out of their alienage, and had established a smaller operation for giving aid inside the walls of the elven district. But when the reconstruction was done and the queen turned her eyes to shaping policy elsewhere, including entertaining ambassadors from Orlais, the Chantry had felt its power wane. The Grand Cleric resented the queen, who was inactive in her faith at best and sacrilegious at worst. Alistair knew little of the feud, though, since Elissa was afraid that a former Templar siding with his wife against the Chantry was an ill political move. Elwin had filled him in on the long walk from the Palace to the Market District, and the king had felt a pang of hurt that his wife had trusted his political savvy so little that she was keeping things from him, even if they were small things. He wondered what other troubles she'd been keeping to herself.

"How may we serve our country, King Alistair?" asked the old lady, who was pleased that her political clout had come back through her office door in the form of the naïve and unwilling king.

He smiled warmly, the smile a neighbor would use to ask for a cup of milk. "Grand Cleric, it seems that a couple Chantries have neglected paying taxes, and I wouldn't normally bother you about it, but the budget is falling a tad short and, well, you understand."

The old woman smiled evilly, which was unbecoming, to say the least, of the head of religion in the country. "Yes, I am aware that the Chantry has been withholding money from the state. I have continued to collect taxes from our holdings in the name of Ferelden, however."

Elwin said nothing, but only raised an eyebrow, waiting to see how the king handled this blatant treachery.

"You have? Well that's very convenient for me, then. Elwin, may I see the tab we ran up for the Reverend Mother?" The scribe handed him the scroll, which Alistair unraveled with a flourish. The thing was as long as he was tall. "Lets see. That's quite a bit of money you've been holding for us. You've made my job so much easier, I was afraid I was going to have to send out tax collectors."

The Grand Cleric looked at the bottom line where the total had been tallied. The number was right, and she knew it, but it seemed that the coffers were missing a good chunk, specifically the chunk she put into refurbishing her office. Her brow furrowed as she looked over the account.

"Is there are problem, your grace?" The king had a foot up on his chair and was leaning over her desk, examining the paper. Elwin had intentionally been meticulous to make the scroll as long as possible, and Alistair loved the dramatic effect of making the old hag toss the length around.

"No… No, your majesty, there is no problem with this account, it has been collected in full. However-"

Alistair raised an eyebrow, daring her to go on.

She swallowed. When had the snotty boy who'd been stolen away become this intimidating hulk of a man? "However, we are withholding the money on moral grounds."

Alistair sat back down, dominating the space around him. "You are referring to the feud with the queen. As I understand it, you resent the Chantry's decline in power since the ending of the reconstruction."

Of course he was right, and the proud woman scowled. "The Maker and his disciples are not concerned with worldly power –" Elwin coughed pointedly here, "but with the moral wellbeing of the country. The queen refuses to come to our services, and it sets a poor example for the lay people. If the queen does not bow to the Maker, they may not either."

He nodded. "As I recall, Queen Elissa hasn't attended a Chant in her life, except our marriage. Has attendance dropped, even the slightest, because of that?"

An icy look was his only reply.

"No, I thought not. And speaking of examples, Reverend Mother, what sort of example does withholding taxes from the nation set? If word of this gets out, there are two very bad consequences I can see. I can announce that the Chantry has been withholding taxes, and as a result the Army will have to be reduced in size. This means we cannot protect from outsiders, which will prompt an invasion, or from those within, which will prompt rioting. And since the Chantry was the start of the whole mess, it is very likely that your holdings will be the first to be ransacked, including this well decorated cave you've made yourself." He paused to let her bristle. "Alternatively, you announce that the Chantry is above the law and no longer pays taxes because the queen has rejected the Maker. This generates extreme bad will among the public for both of us and now no one pays taxes, leading again to the chaos and mayhem that I can't prevent because I can't feed my army. And once again, you lose your pretty baubles to mobs."

The Grand Cleric looked like she was about to pop. Her face was bright red and her brows almost touched her nose. "You upstart! You dare threaten me? I am the Chantry of Ferelden! I answer to the Divine only, not some bastard whelp whose wife maneuvered him onto the throne!" She stood, spitting mad. "I will not pay until that brat of a queen bows before the Maker and restores the rights she has withheld from us."

Alistair smiled, a reaction she was not expecting, and snapped his fingers. From the shadows appeared Zevran, looming with unsheathed daggers over the Grand Cleric's left shoulder. She turned and made a small sound similar to an oink. "If the Reverend Mother would be so kind to lower her voice, we may proceed," purred the elf. Terrified, the hag dropped into her chair. Zevran reached into an unseen pocket behind his back, pulling out a sheaf of papers for Elwin. The scribe skimmed them and then nodded with a small grin of approval to the King.

Alistair shook his head. "I was hoping you could be reasoned with, your grace. But oh well, you've played your hand. Elissa, whom you will not slander in my presence again, has not rescinded any power from you, and your waning influence is not her responsibility. If I were you, I would blame the rampant corruption, starting at the top. And the Maker may be above Ferelden law, but you are not. Not only that, but all your land falls within my country, and as such, I can and will tax it. If you refuse to turn over the money you owe, you will be evicted like common street vendors and Elwin here will write up an eloquent account of how the Grand Cleric has used Chantry funds to furnish her own lavish quarters."

The ugly woman seethed. "You cannot survive as King if the Chantry turns against you. Neither can you support those claims."

Still lounging, Alistair held out his hand for the sheaf of documents Zevran had uncovered. After a cursory glance, still looking down, he replied, "Actually, we can. On both counts. The folk of Ferelden are ruled by two extremely popular and just monarchs, in case you haven't heard. And these papers, which I can hide if you cooperate or publish if you don't, prove exactly what I am claiming: that you are corrupt to the core, Grand Cleric." He looked up. "Elwin has a contract for you to sign. Over the next three months you will repay the Kingdom of Ferelden in full with interest, and in return we will keep this exchange between the two of us."

Elwin pulled out another paper, clearly a treaty of sorts.

The Grand Cleric looked like she was going to eat a small child in her rage. But the nonentity become king had out maneuvered her, and all without the apparent help of his scheming queen. She, at least, had not wanted to wage war with the Chantry. The King, however, did not seem particularly scared of the idea, which made the old woman cautious. If he could best her in this, a war would be a trickier thing than she thought. Outraged and cornered, she could think of no option but to sign the paper.

The king snatched up the contract and blew the ink on her signature dry. "Wonderful! Thank you so much for your cooperation, Reverend Mother." He stood, and he and Elwin the damned scribe sauntered out her door.

She thought she was alone, but an Antivan voice whispered, "Do behave yourself, old woman. Remember, we are all judged by an invisible and wrathful… god." The woman almost jumped out of her skin.

Outside the office, rejoined by his guard, King Alistair was extremely proud of himself. "Now, that wasn't so hard. Why didn't Elissa just do that herself?"

Elwin was scrambling to hold his papers in place. One of the knights following them kept catching spare leafs and giving them back to the scribe, who only dropped them again. "At least one of two reasons, majesty."

Alistair furrowed his brow. "Oh?"

The din of the market covered their conversation from curious ears, except those of the knights, who were sworn to secrecy. "First, her majesty has grown weary of ruling alone, and therefore wanted his Majesty the King to act."

The templar grunted. "Fair enough. The other reason?"

Elwin hesitated, but it had to be said. "His majesty has just made the second step towards a war with the Chantry by using force and coercion rather than diplomacy and cunning to retrieve his stolen funds. Granted, her majesty saw no alternative, but this was the reason for her inaction."

The king stopped in his tracks. "War? With the Chantry?"

Elwin only nodded.

"Maker…" groaned the larger man. "I am a fool. Elissa is right, I have no idea how to do this."

They were almost out of the market district, and thus lowered their voices. Elwin, unnecessarily, whispered, "At least his majesty has solved the deficit."

He only groaned again, and brooded silently until they reached the palace. As they parted, he announced. "I give up, Elwin, I'm going to Highever at the week's end. Maker's breath, I can't do any of this right. I need to get Elissa back here, she'll know what to do."

"But, majesty-"

"She gave you orders to not let me go, right? I hate to be the one to tell you this, but you couldn't exactly take me in a fight. You can't stop me." He turned and stormed toward his chambers. "If the country burns down while I'm gone, make sure everyone knows it's my fault!" he called over his shoulder.

* * *

"You look like you need a drink," rumbled her second in command.

She sighed, "No, Oghren, the last thing I need right now is-"

The dwarf thumped a large earthenware mug on the table, herbal tea sloshing over the sides.

She looked up, surprised. "Tea? Since when can you make tea?" She took a big sip, expecting warmth and comfort but receiving hot bile. It took all her control not to spit it out, but to swallow.

The warrior looked up expectantly.

"Needs a little sugar," was all she said, and cautiously moved the mug to the stool behind her. They stood in a large canvas tent, the sounds of Highever's meager force and a platoon of Grey Wardens drifting in through the tent flaps on the winter air. The tent was taken up by an overturned cart become her table, a map of her homeland spread across it. "The one month I decide to take a vacation is the one month in the last five years the darkspawn decide to mount a significant attack. This isn't a blight, what are those bastards up to?"

Oghren pulled up a stool so he could better see the map. "Nah, you've got it all wrong. This is exactly the vacation you need. Smashing skulls is great stress relief." He paused, examining the map. "Is that what you're looking at?"

She only nodded, her stare intense.

"You think we have enough troops to flank them?"

She shook her head. "Fifteen Grey Wardens and only a token force from Fergus? We'll be stretched thin…" She looked up finally, grinning wickedly, "… but we have the Hero of Ferelden on our side."

Oghren guffawed, liking her plan very much. "Here I was, thinking you hated that name."

She shrugged, and pulled on her helm. "If Alistair can play king while I'm gone, I might as well play Warden Commander, don't you think?" She clipped her cloak to her brilliant breastplate, the blue field of the Wardens behind the golden crest of Ferelden. She was queen and commander, but mostly she was a warrior. "Come on. You'll lead the charge."

Oghren grabbed his own helm and ran out the tent flap behind her.

* * *

The darkspawn were landing on the beach north of her childhood home, and that was enough to make her want to crush their boats into tinder. As it was, though, she didn't possess the man power. She did, however, possess an intimate knowledge of the land. And she knew that the easiest way off that beach was a long and winding path cut between the cliffs. In some places it was so narrow that only three men could pass at a time, in others so wide that ten men could stand abreast and still have room to swing their arms. One such stretch made a large crescent in the land, the walls as high as the path was wide, with a slow curve around the way. At the end of this stretch was Oghren and his troops, standing just on the other side of the curve so most of the force, small as it was, was hidden, and making as much noise as possible. Four mabaris were stationed so their acoustics made them sound like twenty, Bennet howling especially loud, the men carried horns and drums and shouted as many insulting things to the landing force they could. At dawn the darkspawn had landed, and they had immediately fallen for the ruse. They moved slowly and cautiously up the path, the ogres among them moving at the front of the force and often having trouble in the narrower parts of the passage. They expected a larger force than they would encounter, and their slow progress made them easy to track from above.

And tracked from above they were. Elissa and five Grey Wardens, chosen by hand for their cunning and disregard for personal safety, watched their slow progress, peering over the cliffs' edges on their bellies. Her small force consisted of two mages, one on each side of the canyon, a berserker who grunted more than he talked, and two assassins. Twins, as she understood it. They bickered constantly, the girl often sticking out her tongue and her brother often pulling her braids.

At noon Elissa gave the order, and she and her force, minus the mages, uncoiled ropes from their waists. The twins lowered themselves down one side of the canyon while the commander and the berserker edged down the other. They hung above the bottleneck the darkspawn would pass through before entering the wide crescent where the battle would take place. So focused on the seemingly massive force, the monsters never bothered to look up where they would have seen four hanging Wardens. Fifteen minutes after they uncoiled their ropes, the whole invading force passed under them, taking another quarter of an hour to pass through the bottleneck and regroup. Like always, they formed up with the ogres in the front and the emissaries in the back. Four ogres, counted Elissa, a grimace forming. More than she expected.

Arms beginning to ache after hanging for half an hour, she gave the silent signal to begin repelling down the canyon. They moved silently and slowly, taking great care to dislodge as little of the loose rock as possible. They touched the ground just as Oghren sounded his charge around the bend. Just behind the curve, Elissa couldn't see the clash of forces, and hoped that Oghren could still take down an ogre by himself. As soon as the dwarf's horn sounded, the ambush force of Grey Wardens struck as well. Five emissaries stood in the back, just around the bend and out of the line of fire of Highever's archers. So focused on raining fire and lightning down around the corner, it was too late for them when the attack from behind came. The twins each slit the throat of an emissary, the girl shoving her sword through its chest as it tried to cast one more spell, and the berserker took the head off another with a satisfied grunt. The last two turned on Elissa, one sending a blast of fire and the other a blast of ice. When the forces collided, she was no longer there, instead behind the ice emissary. It spun to face her, but no matter what way it turned, she stayed hidden behind its back. The fire emissary tried again, the second emissary catching the brunt of the fire and igniting into a giant ball of magical pain. She left it to writhe and flanked the second emissary as her Wardens rushed past to reek havoc on the main force.

She leapt at the hurloc, swords positioned to drive through its skull and clavicle, when suddenly she was frozen in pain. Light bent around her and air came sparse as a magical prison held her aloft, crushing her body. The second emissary had cast this final spell as it died, the force of its very life making it all the stronger. The hurloc laughed and began an incantation, darkness beginning to form a cloud around her. Just as suddenly as she had been caught, the spell dropped her to the ground, gasping a hard deep breath that hurt as much as it healed. On her hands and knees, the emissary loomed, beginning the end of the incantation to end her. Without looking up, she drove her longsword, made of starmetal and whetted on the bones of the archdemon itself, up through the monster's groin, severing its spine and emerging black with blood from the creature's shoulders. With a grunt she stood and pulled, discarding the corpse with disdain.

In the short moment she'd fought, her Wardens had begun to cut an admirable path through the horde. Above the mages rained magic, one healing the troops to the best of her ability and the other sucking the very life force from the darkspawn. The contrast of their magics was not lost on the commander. Meanwhile, the berserker had taken point, systematically swinging his giant maul at anything that got too close while the twins darted around him, puncturing and piercing the stunned monsters.

"Attend, Wardens!" Elissa charged, Starfang and Duncan's sword whistling through the air with a bloodthirsty keening. She took point from the berserker, who fell back to her left, the twins fanning to her right with the man taking rear guard. Together they pressed forward, darkspawn blood spraying from crushed heads and slit throats. The horde quickly split down the middle before the force, most monsters diving out of the way of the berserker's maul only to be maimed by the three rogues. With a final crunch of buckling armor beneath her sword, the Wardens reached Fergus's troops, who swarmed into the gap they'd cut. Behind the front line, the commander took a deep breath and gestured for her force to join the ranks for the final slaughter, focusing first on destroying the east half of the horde. She looked around, about to join them, when she realized Oghren was nowhere to be seen. Panic clutched her chest for a moment, answered almost instantly with a call of "Ancestor's tits!"

Oghren was surrounded, two of his guard dead and the last one cradling an arm like it was shattered. They'd been backed up against the western cliff wall, Oghren's helm gone and a huge gash impairing most of his vision with swelling and blood. Although he could barely stand, he swung Ageless with his drunken fury. Perhaps the alcohol had numbed the pain, she thought, as she dived into the horde, unconcerned with the darkspawn blades skittering off the back of her leather armor, no darkspawn arm fast enough to catch her. Almost there, she dove and swung both swords, decapitating a genlock on either side.

"By the Stone am I glad to see you," Oghren muttered, falling to a knee in exhaustion as she impaled the hurloc before him.

"Some general you are, getting separated from the force like this!" She blocked a maul coming for her head while kicking in the sternum of another hurloc trying to flank them, breaking a couple toes inside her boot. An axe came down on her left arm, slicing into the bicep and cracking painfully on the bone. Her arm went numb and Duncan's sword threatened to totter from her grip.

Outside the circle of darkspawn surrounding them, it seemed Highever's force was making easy work of the half of the horde opposite them. It was going well, but it was going slowly, most of the men older or younger than she would have liked. It would take them at least another half hour to begin on her side, and with two seriously injured men and a dead arm, Elissa felt her stomach drop. She quickly smashed a health poultice against the arm, restoring enough feeling to defend with it, and steeled herself. She was a rogue, no great defender of men, but for the next hour she would have to be. She screamed incoherently, challenging the monsters.

One of her mages heard her, and began healing Oghren the best she could. But from the other side of the chasm and so far up, the magic was dulled and slow. After ten minutes he could stand, though he could hardly lift the ancient sword. Elissa's arm had gone dead again after a hurloc had bitten her, a kindness she repaid with a kick to the stomach and a longsword through the face. Another darkspawn had managed to get an arrow into her thigh, the shot penetrating to the bone and nicking something that wouldn't stop bleeding. Seeing the commander so hurt, the last surviving man of Oghren's guard stood, holding out his last poultice. She reached for it gladly, and as soon as her fingers wrapped around the jar, a genlock severed the man's arm. The hand still attached, she dropped the medicine and decapitated the darkspawn with a two handed blow, the pain threatening to overtake her. Even as the monster fell, three more took its place, desperately swarming in for a piece. Their rear lost to the darkspawn, they were surrounded. Even while she swung desperately, Elissa thought her last sight would be a hurloc biting out the throat of the last survivor.

As its jaws reopened, though, the monster was suddenly studded with a dozen arrows, falling with a scream. She looked up and saw the cliff lined with archers all wearing the Ferelden uniform, their signets denoting them as the Elite guard, all veterans of the Siege of Denerim. She'd sent word to the capital, but there hadn't been enough time for them to arrive in Highever. Stunned, she turned to see a gold blade running with rivulets of blood take off the head of a hurloc. The owner turned with the swing, smashing in the face of another monster with his shield, the griffon emblazoned on the front seeming to scream a battle cry. Finally healed, Oghren began swinging his sword again, the two cutting a small circle of safety around her. Moments later the Elites filled the space and systematically expanded to meet the Highever forces cutting in from the outside. With a perimeter established, Alistair sheathed his father's sword and his mentor's shield, pulling fresh bandages from his small battle pack.

He gently pulled away her gauntlets, examining the damage. "I seem to remember getting a lecture about gallivanting around playing the hero while there was work to be done at home," he cracked, relief written clearly on his face. His expression became grim when he saw her leg. "Maker, how are you standing?" There wasn't much to be done safely, but after lowering her to the ground, he set about putting her arm in a makeshift sling.

"I sent word yesterday, how'd you get here so fast?" She bit through her cheek as he begun a tourniquet on her leg, determined not to scream.

He grimaced. "Yes, well… I may have started a war with the Grand Cleric."

The sounds of battle stopped for a moment, or so Elissa thought. Maybe she was going to pass out. Suddenly the blood came back to her face and she was able to breathe. She took a deep breath. "Well, it was going to happen eventually."

Clearly elated that she wasn't going to kill him, he smiled. Finished with the first aid, he draped her arm over his shoulder and slowly stood, placing her gently on her feet. "You know, if it wasn't for all the shiny armor, no one would guess we were in charge of this mess of a country, what with me bandaging you up and you looking like something the mabari dragged in."

"Yes, how did that happen anyway?" Around them the battle had become a slaughter, Elites finishing the task of eliminating the enemy force. At least a hundred monsters still stood, but as they ran for the beach, no one doubted what the outcome of the day would be. As such, the two monarchs had a clear path back to the rear guard where the Warden healer was anxiously waiting.

Oghren appeared at their side, grinning and uncapping his hipflask. "I seem to remember someone having ambitions for the throne, but then again I don't how accurate that was."

Alistair raised an eyebrow, pretending not to be amused. "Strange, you don't remember any of it, a sober man like you?"

Elissa just concentrated on walking, only looking up when she heard a familiar bark and was suddenly greeted by a wuffing noise under her breast plate. "Good boy," she managed to moan. "Is Fergus alright?"

Her older brother was being attended to by a healer, who he promptly ignored as soon as his little sister limped into sight. "Am I alright? Elissa, look at you! It's a miracle you're cogent! You, come fix this!" He waved over the exasperated healer, who'd already started on someone else. The Warden healer rushed forward instead, clucking motherly.

Elissa felt a pang of grief, missing Wynne's healing touch, but could only spare it a moment, the Warden Captain had appeared, awaiting the Commander's orders "Fergus, Oghren, get your captains. I want casualty reports. Take all the wounded we can move to Highever Castle. Alistair, have the Elites sweep out from the area, make sure we haven't missed any darkspawn. Captain, account for the Wardens. Have those that can still fight assist with the sweeps." Things were suddenly getting dark. She looked at the healer, who was getting an approving nod from the king. "You… bastard…"

He smiled and kissed her forehead. "I think I can handle it from here, dear."

She slipped into the sleeping spell, closing her heavy eyes with the last thought of "Wynne would have ignored him."

* * *

She came too, slowly, the sounds of screams coming in muffled. The world was blurry, like she was wrapped in cheesecloth, all her senses dulled, save the throbbing pain in her face. With slow fingers, she touched the side of her head. At some point the laceration sliding down her face had been rinsed and rubbed with an expired balm of sorts, but that had to have been many hours ago. Straw stuck in the salve with dirt and hair, and blood ran out of the edges of the caked mess. She tried to pick the filth off, but white hot pain lanced across her face, waking her up fully.

She lay in the middle of a pen, the floor made of a thin layer of rushes clearly meant to absorb as much blood as possible off the cold cobblestones. Her nose was affronted with the smell of a thousand bowels being loosed, she suspected, in pain beyond caring. Almost as if to confirm her suspicion, a man was dragged screaming from the cell next to hers, gibbering wordlessly in fear. His legs were bent and broken, months past being able to carry any weight, so a grey faced guard dragged him over the rushes, each one a small stab into the man's many open wounds that made a gruesome lattice across his frame. As the pair rounded the corner, distance only barely dulling the screams, she wished she'd been aware enough to throw a stone at the guard, just to do something. As it was, she could hardly push herself into a sitting position.

"Thank the Maker!" Alistair's voice sounded behind her, accompanied with the clank of iron. His left wrist was raw under the shackle holding him to the wall, the least but freshest of his injuries. She moved toward him, only to be stopped short by her chain, holding her right ankle fast to the floor. "After they dragged you in… well, you had me worried."

She tried to think back, but the last coherent memory she had was of Ser Cauthrien's gauntleted hand smashing into her face. After that, flashes of red and dull pounding in darkness, but nothing else, despite the obvious fact that they were one wall away from a torture chamber. "Are you alright? Have they…"

He smiled glumly. "Not yet, no. We're being held as bargaining chips. Loghain will promise our safe return in exchange for Anora taking the throne. Once she's safely in power, Loghain will release us and I'll make a public statement about how Anora's coronation was all with my approval and we were just off doing our Wardenly duties."

She was quiet for a moment. "That's very astute of you."

He grimaced. "Not really, Cauthrien explained it all this morning to keep me from going ballistic. I thought you were down there, but they had some cut rate healer sticking that mess on your face. You went down pretty hard."

"I feel like-"

The great iron door at the end of the dimly lit hall clanged open, and two figures approached, the smaller staying in the shadows. Loghain approached, his armor immaculate. "I'd say this is quite the fitting domain for our bastard king, wouldn't you, Warden?" He entered their cell, grinning darkly.

She sneered. "Come to gloat, murderer? Or has your bitch daughter taken the throne already? She must be yours after all, what with betrayal running so deep in both your veins."

The usurper took one cold look at her and embedded his boot in her chest with enough force to break ribs. Had she the breath she would have screamed.

"Bastard! I'll kill you!" Alistair was up on his feet, as much as the shackle allowed.

"You won't. I welcome you to imagine it though. I'm simply here to wish you farewell. You've been a thorn in my side so long, I wanted one last look at you, hale and at my mercy. Would you like to beg for it?"

Elissa spit blood on his boot, earning another kick, this time to her stomach.

Loghain turned and waved contemptuously at his companion on his way out. Rendon Howe stepped into the light of their cell.

Elissa screamed incoherently.

"You!" Alistair vocalized for her. "You're supposed to be dead."

Howe grinned, all murder and slime. "I could say the same about both of you. Or I can in a matter of days. Weeks, if I'm lucky." Turning to Elissa, he bent and began sliding a hand up her thigh. The sensation made her want to retch. "We're going to play your favorite game again. You know which one that is? It's the one where I destroy everything you love while you watch, helpless. And you know where I'll start?"

He stood, pulling a small blade from his jerkin. The smell of the poison gleaming dull blue on the knife told her that it was one derived from spider venom, an anticoagulant to keep victims bleeding. With horror, she watched Howe kick Alistair in the groin, sending him crumpling to the ground, then stab her love in the side, twice. Two small wounds, but she knew that they pierced organs and would bleed for several painful hours before he died of septic shock.

And she knew, with a cold knot of comprehension, that this would only be the beginning.

* * *

Uh oh! Nightmares! I had a scene after this explaining what was going on, but Anders was in it, so rather than have a fun scene with Funny Anders, I'm going to rework it so it fits with DA2's Emo McWhiney Anders aka no Anders here! You know... IF ANYONE FREAKING REVIEWS THIS.


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